


Stockings

by Joodiff



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Office Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6952996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boyd makes an interesting discovery - one that Grace wants him to make.</p><p>  <i>Adult fic - over 18s only, please.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Stockings

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_( **A/N:** Please be aware that there’s at least one reference in this story that may confuse those more familiar with American English than British English – if you don’t spot it, don’t worry about it! If you do, and you are puzzled… well, see the note at the end. Enjoy!)_

* * *

 

**Stockings**

by Joodiff

* * *

 

“One day,” Boyd growls from the darkest, most cramped corner of the stacks that comprise just part of the CCU’s extensive archive, “we’ve got get this lot properly indexed and cross-referenced – and not just on an _ad hoc_ basis. What’s the point of wasting hours blindly poking around down here when we could have the whole lot entered onto a sodding database? At least then we’d stand half a chance of being able to find what we’re looking for. It’s a complete waste of time and resources randomly searching for stuff like this. We’re not in the bloody Dark Ages anymore, for fuck’s sake.”

There is no answer from the other side of the dingy subterranean room. He’s not surprised. He’s tired, he’s had a long and stressful day, and the very last thing he wants to be doing at gone nine at night is looking for something Grace thinks she vaguely remembers stumbling across an indeterminate amount of time ago. He’s petulant and irritable and he knows it, and since she long-ago elevated into a minor art form completely ignoring him whenever she deems him more than usually bad-tempered, the resulting silence is ostentatious; heavy with meaning. Even so, Boyd pauses, glares over his shoulder in what he guesses to be her general direction and barks, “ _Grace_. I said – “

“I _heard_ what you said,” her long-suffering voice returns from the other side of the many ceiling-high racks of files and boxes that form a physical barrier between them. “You say _exactly_ the same thing every single time you have to come down here and actually look for something yourself.”

She’s right, but that doesn’t stop Boyd being aggrieved by her tone. He’s a Detective Superintendent, for God’s sake, a middle-aged senior police officer in sole command of a specialist autonomous unit. He has _staff_ to do this sort of thing for him, and if Grace had bothered to think about that _before_ he dismissed everyone for the night then –

“Here we are,” her disembodied voice suddenly announces before he has a chance to further vocalise his increasing annoyance. “Found it.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Boyd mutters, roughly pushing recently-disturbed files back into their assigned places. It’s probably not much of a secret to anyone anymore that despite his gruff demeanour he adores her, would willingly walk barefoot over hot coals for her if circumstances called for it, but, by Christ, even on a good day she is more than capable of exasperating him beyond the point of endurance with her knowing looks, her completely illogical theories, and her damned female intuition. Brushing dust off his expensive suit trousers with fastidious care, he casts a final grim, venomous look at the racks he’s been not-so-patiently searching before straightening up and backing cautiously out of the narrow space.

He locates her in a deep alcove at the back of the room. Barefoot, Boyd is close to six foot tall, and even _he_ can only just reach the top shelves unaided. Grace isn’t, and she can’t. Consequently, he finds her precariously balanced on an old wooden step-ladder trying to rummage through the contents of a dog-eared box-file one-handed. His first reaction is both laudable and chivalrous – steady the damn ladder to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself – his second rather less-so. He can be gallant when it suits him, but Boyd is also a thoroughly red-blooded male, and – age notwithstanding – she really does have very good legs. Which, given today’s unusual sartorial choice of a dark grey skirt in place of the tailored trousers she tends to favour, and the current step-ladder situation, are extremely well-displayed. He loyally puts a foot on the bottom rung, of course he does, but despite his desire to stabilise the ladder his gaze remains well-and-truly focused on the shapely limbs now positioned right in front of him. His only possible excuse is that he’s a man irretrievably in lust and is therefore easily distracted by such things.

Somewhere above him, Grace complains, “It’s not in here. I could have sworn…”

Boyd could have sworn, too, a few minutes earlier. Loudly, inventively, and at great length. But now he’s much less irritable. Staring fixedly at her legs, he ignobly suggests, “Check again.”

She hasn’t spotted the mendacity behind the words. Not yet. But she will. Until then, he’s making the most of the highly agreeable view for just as long as he possibly can. Really _very_ good legs. And the sheer tights she’s wearing are beginning to do some very interesting things for him, too.

“Ahem,” Grace says.

She’s realised. With as ingenuous an expression as he can muster, Boyd looks up at her. “Mm?”

“Enjoying yourself?” she asks in the kind of mild tone that’s very deceptive.

“Enjoying the view,” he admits, doing his best to be at least a little disarming. The look he receives in return is cool and serene, but also faintly pleased. It’s all the encouragement Boyd needs to give up the role of passive voyeur and take an altogether more proactive stance. Those legs feel just as good as they look. Not a surprise, given that by now he knows precisely how every inch of her body feels under his hands, but an extremely pleasant experience all the same.

“Stop it,” Grace scolds, though her voice lacks any real ire. “How am I supposed to concentrate with you doing that?”

Not removing his hands, he says, “I thought women were supposed to be far better than men at multi-tasking?”

She snorts, goes back to rummaging through the box-file she’s now unsteadily balancing on the top of the ladder. Boyd takes it as tacit permission to carry on amusing himself. And therefore does so. Grace may be deliberately ignoring his wandering hands, but he doesn’t care; his evening has already improved immeasurably. He might be a lot closer to sixty than sixteen, but the stark truth of all the mounting years hasn’t put much of a dent in his healthy libido. Boyd likes women. He likes them a _lot_. And, God help him, he’s become far too captivated by her to let such a good opportunity quite literally slip through his fingers.

The higher his hands travel, the further he’s pushing his luck, he knows that. What Grace deems acceptable in the intimate privacy of the bedroom tends to be very different from her robust ideas about what does – and does _not_ – constitute appropriate behaviour in the workplace. Even late in the evening when there’s only the two of them and the ever-present spark of mutual attraction. A consummate professional himself, Boyd can see her point, but though age and experience may have mellowed him a little he’s still an impetuous, impudent sort of creature at heart – one who’s not afraid to take a chance or two now and again. Still, he’s also a realist, and he’s already fully prepared for the inevitable stern admonition. The one Grace will really mean and he will actually heed because although he’s often reckless he’s definitely not stupid.

She really has got damn good legs, though, and if he edges his hands just a little higher under her skirt…

_Holy fucking hell…_

The unexpected discovery under his palms just about knocks Boyd off his feet. Not tights. Oh, no. _Stockings_.

All manner of carnal visions explode into vibrant life inside his skull and he really doesn’t give a flying fuck how laughably predictable most of them are. It takes him more than a moment to realise Grace is looking down at him again. For the sake of his carefully-cultivated image as a cynical and experienced man of the world he hopes he doesn’t look anything like as stunned as he feels. Her amused expression suggests he does. She raises her eyebrows. “Problem…?”

If she classifies the likelihood of him completely losing his grip on what little self-control he possesses in the very near future as a problem, then yes, he admits to himself, there just might be… He swallows hard, an involuntary action and one she quite plainly notices from the impish smile she gives him. It’s _her_ fault that his voice sounds huskier than it should as he responds with an unconvincing, “No problem. No problem at all.”

What the hell _is_ it about her that has such an effect on him? Try as he might, Boyd can’t quite find the answer, and there’s nothing on earth that captures and holds his attention quite as successfully as an unsolved mystery; nothing that fascinates him more than something he can’t easily explain.

“Peter…?”

He looks up at her, drawn by the arch tone of her soft voice, and he isn’t at all surprised by the not-quite hidden glint of mischief he can see in her vivid blue eyes. It finally dawns on him that though the exact moment of discovery may not have been foreseeable, his instinctive masculine reaction to it most assuredly was. Yet again, she’s drawn him neatly into a perfectly-executed trap. Probably, it was supposed to spring rather later in the evening, but she looks like a woman who’s nevertheless very satisfied with the end result of her machinations. Under other circumstances he might be tempted to applaud her tactics, but currently he’s rather too distracted to do any such thing.

“Stockings,” he says, the pitch of his voice a fraction higher than he intends. He’s an idiot and he knows it. But, _damn_ …

“Yes,” Grace agrees, stretching to replace the box file on the high shelf it came from. The ladder wobbles a fraction, but he still has one foot very heavily on the bottom rung preventing any chance of calamity. She pivots carefully, the silky material of the items in question gliding against his palms. “You approve?”

His answer is a vehement, “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Grace…”

“Problem?” she inquires again, the still-invisible smirk perfectly audible. “You look a little… bewildered.”

Bewildered? _Bewildered_ doesn’t come anywhere close. Belatedly, Boyd starts to weigh up the possibilities offered by her revised position on the ladder. Revenge is an ugly word, and not one altogether suitable for a man of his professional standing, but he isn’t slow to recognise just how vulnerable she is, teetering up there on her ladder with no easy means of escape. He sees the precise moment the same thing dawns on her, too, the moment she realises that short of leaping off the rungs into mid-air, she has no practical way of escaping him. Just a little smug, he drawls, “Bewildered? No. Not bewildered. Try again.”

A hint of colour rises in her cheeks, visible even in the poorly-lit room. “Boyd…”

He doesn’t miss the considered use of his surname, coming hard on the heels of the infinitely more teasing and intimate _Peter_. It tells him that she’s edging towards the defensive, that she knows she’s losing the ascendancy – though clearly not in a physical sense – and is gathering herself to deal with whatever he takes it into his head to do next. Advance and withdraw, attack and defend. It’s been the routine of their entire relationship, personal and otherwise, for as long as he can remember. Sometimes for fun and sport, sometimes in earnest, the stakes much higher, the wounds much worse, but always the same pattern. Grace doesn’t play chess, but Boyd does – and proficiently, too. He knows when to retreat, and when to press home an advantage.

He lets his hands slide back up her legs, his eyes never leaving hers as he replies, “Grace.”

Her near-unshakable serenity is legendary, but, this time at least, he knows it’s a façade. Still, she sounds patient and only a little exasperated as she says, “Down, boy. Later.”

Boyd can picture the later. In vivid Technicolor. It doesn’t do anything to alleviate the dull but pleasant ache firmly centred south of his belt buckle. Twenty years ago, he thinks, he would have already been as hard as iron, more than ready to simply seize hold of her and… That thought doesn’t help, either. In fact, it has quite the opposite effect, sending blood pounding towards his groin in insolent defiance. Not being a man for words when action is available to him, he keeps his hands firmly on her legs and uses his forearms to nudge her skirt out of his way, simultaneously ducking forward to kiss her inner thigh through the sheer material that’s proving such an irresistible temptation. The result is a palpable tautening of lithe muscle and a soft, breathy sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. It makes him grin, the expression hidden from her.

“Boyd,” she says again, but there’s less conviction in her tone this time. She’s wrestling with her own ideas of propriety, he guesses, and is trying to decide whether or not he’s serious.

He is, he decides. He could, of course, hustle her straight out of the building and whisk her away to his house – marginally closer to headquarters than hers – and the comfortable privacy of his bedroom, and she probably wouldn’t object… or be at all surprised. He’s done more-or-less exactly that more than once before, after all, but he’s not a patient man, and he’s pretty damn sure she’s due some immediate payback for the blatant and premeditated offence of the wearing of stockings in the workplace. Even if he wasn’t supposed to discover that interesting fact until much later. He knows her – flatters himself he knows her better than just about anyone – and he knows precisely how her mind works, knows just how much of a kick she’s going to get out of the sweet torment of making him wonder every single day from now on whether or not she’s…

Stockings. Boyd is a detective, a highly-trained, government-sanctioned investigator. And there is something that most definitely needs investigating. He’s by no means an expert in such matters, but he _is_ male and over fifty, and therefore considerably less hazy than some of his younger counterparts might be on the mechanics of good old-fashioned lingerie, and where there are stockings, he has every reason to hope that there will be…

Suspenders. Attached, he discovers, to a very lacy, ivory-coloured…

_Bloodyfuckinghellfire!_

He looks up at her again, and this time there is no doubt at all that a self-satisfied smirk is threatening to break through her studied calm. Oh, well played, Doctor Foley. Game, set, and bloody match.

“Are you all right?” Grace inquires in what is quite obviously feigned concern. “Do you need me to call a First Aider, or something?”

“I _am_ a First Aider,” he growls at her, “and much as I appreciate the offer…”

It seems she can’t restrain her mirth any longer, because the smirk becomes a chuckle, and the chuckle very quickly turns into full-bodied laughter. At his expense. Naturally.

In general, Boyd is inclined to bristle at the very notion of being laughed at – by anyone, but particularly by a woman. It’s a legacy, perhaps, of the stinging humiliations inflicted on his shy, gangling teenaged self by various giggling young females who weren’t in the least bit interested in his clumsy advances, and weren’t at all afraid to make that regrettable fact abundantly clear. It’s been a long, long time, however, since he was that gauche and that lacking in self-confidence, so he merely pins her with a haughty stare that sadly does very little, if anything, to stem her mirth. Without a doubt it’s time to assert himself in an altogether more proactive way.

So he does, launching another sensual assault on the stocking-clad inner thigh that’s so temptingly positioned. It certainly stops the laughter. In fact, he can’t really describe the noise Grace makes in response, but it doesn’t sound like a protest. Not in any way. Deciding that the bunched folds of her skirt are impeding further progress, he takes a moment to hitch the garment further up around her hips before encircling her legs with his arms and returning to his self-imposed task with renewed enthusiasm. He’s barely aware of the hand that reaches out to grip his shoulder, lost as he already is in the captivating heat and scent of her body. The pale exposed skin above the stocking tops is too tempting a target to ignore, and he nuzzles his way towards it, intoxicated by the welter of sensory feedback screaming along every blazing pathway to his brain.

Surprisingly strong fingers dig hard into his shoulder muscles, but though Boyd feels her fierce grip, he’s not so easily distracted; he keeps his focus where it belongs, on the soft skin he’s gently mapping with his lips, with just the very tip of his tongue. Grace’s breathing is rapid and audible now, and when he deliberately moves higher it seems she can’t suppress a breathy moan – one that encourages him to release the grip of one arm so he can attempt to deal with the complex puzzle of aesthetically pleasing but far too complicated lingerie. It only takes him a few moments to decide it’s a lost cause, requiring far too much thought and effort given their current situation and her precarious position on the ladder. Instead, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric and edges what he can out of his way, suddenly not satisfied with just the scent of her. He wants – needs – to taste her, to worship her, to lose himself so thoroughly in the endless feminine mysteries of her body that he –

Her voice is hoarse, urgent. “ _Boyd_ …”

The desperate entreaty doesn’t stop him, not until she repeats it again, and yet again, dragging him back to a place of marginal sanity and common-sense. Looking up, he reads her expression and understands. He doesn’t care, though, if his own voice sounds brusque and harsh as he replies, “Christ’s sake, Grace… It’s just us down here; everyone else went home _hours_ ago.”

“There’s reckless,” she retorts, sounding much more like herself, “and there’s plain damn stupid. This is just asking for trouble.”

“Right,” he sneers back, annoyance getting the better of him, “because someone’s _so_ likely to decide to come poking about down here in the middle of the fucking night.”

The withering look she gives him in reply leaves him in no doubt that she’s serious, however. Only because the wild, impetuous moment has shattered and taken some of the dangerous haze of arousal with it does Boyd sullenly release his tight grip on her and edge back, still keeping his foot on the ladder’s bottom rung. Grace shakes her head, her irritation at his petulant reaction quite plain. “Oh, for God’s sake, Boyd – you’re not a child, so don’t sulk like one.”

“I am _not_ sulking,” he growls, his irritable tone belying the claim. “Look, just come down from there, will you? Before you fall off and hurt your bloody self.”

She smooths down her rumpled clothing before she does so, taking her time about it. Wretched woman will be the death of him. And if she doesn’t send him straight into an early grave, she’s most certainly going to be responsible for him losing the tenuous grip he has left on whatever remains of his sanity. As impatient as ever, Boyd mutters under his breath, earning himself another icy glare. He waits until she’s safely back on the solid concrete floor before giving the ladder a resentful kick that makes it wobble dangerously. “Haven’t you ever heard of Health and sodding Safety?”

“Funny,” she says, halting in front of him, “I was about to ask you _exactly_ the same thing.”

Glad to once again be able to capitalise on his considerable height advantage and look down at her, he subjects her to a very deliberate glower. “It’s your own damned fault. Fucking _stockings_ , Grace.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you were suddenly going to regress back to your teens?”

“Stupid bloody question,” he grumbles. There are no words repeatable in polite company that accurately describe his current level of acute frustration, but in a way she has a point – he certainly feels rather more like a desperate, sex-starved teenager than a mature, allegedly experienced and sophisticated man. It will pass, of course, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be made to pay for –

“Poor Boyd,” she says, a teasing note in her voice that doesn’t make him feel any more charitable towards her. He’s about to growl at her again when she stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses him. Quick, light, and terribly beguiling. It’s difficult to maintain an appropriate level of grumbling displeasure in the face of such underhand tactics, so he simply treats her to a heavy and pointed sigh. One that Grace naturally greets with a bright, innocent smile. He watches as she moves away from him, and he’s pretty damn sure the exaggerated swaying of her hips is quite, quite deliberate. Well, of _course_ it bloody is. She knows how to keep him interested, and isn’t that part of the endless fun of it all?

She’s heading for the door, no doubt about it. If he’s lucky, she’s heading for the door with every intention of leaving not just the archive, but the building itself, and if the evening traffic’s light, they could be…

In the quiet, enclosed space the solid clunk the lock makes as it engages is almost loud enough to startle him. _Almost_.

-oOo-

Satisfied, Grace turns round, finds Boyd eying her with a visible measure of cautious surprise and what she can only describe as a dawning level of suspicious optimism. He doesn’t move a muscle but his stillness only makes her even more aware of the dangerous tension drawn into every long line of his body, even more aware of the kinetic potential for mayhem that exists in him. Of all the unstable extremes of his temperament and behaviour, and what they can lead to. It’s exciting, challenging, and, God help her, far, far too addictive.

The deep-set eyes that watch her with such fixed concentration are blazing with eerie intensity, and Grace wonders if it’s really just a trick of the big room’s woefully inadequate lighting or whether she can really read everything that’s worth knowing about his mood and intentions there. It doesn’t matter anyway, not with her heart already beating so fast and the deep ache of arousal and need refusing to relinquish its grip on her.

Lust at first sight. That’s how she’s described it on the very, very few occasions she’s discussed even a single word of it with anyone, her tone made wry by the calm, cool knowledge of the full extent of her folly. Walking into a roomful of impatient police officers, confident and ready to do the job expected of her, and feeling the whole world vanish as he stole every iota of her focus just by smiling at her and tilting his head just the tiniest fraction to one side. Lost in a heartbeat, self-aware enough to know it, and wise enough to grudgingly accept it without a fight. _Years_ ago.

“Grace…” he says in the here-and-now, his voice roughened by frustration and desire. And still he doesn’t move.

Good times, bad times. Harmony and discord. Fighting and flirtation. Friendship and animosity. Times when she hated him, despised him, wanted nothing more to do with him. Times when she loved him, adored him, wanted desperately to know that her feelings were understood and reciprocated. So many complications and contradictions. Rights and wrongs, promises and misunderstandings. All of it bringing them closer and closer to the fulcrum’s inevitable tipping point. Heat and muscle and sweat in the stinging late-night aftermath of yet another bitter, pointless altercation.

Years. Bloody _years_.

Worth the agonising wait of every last one of them. Not at the time. But now, yes.

 _Fuck me,_ she’d all-but screamed at him, the hard, infamous word alien on her lips, but oh-so right in the burning, angry moment. And he had. Then. There. Up against the observation area’s rough block wall without quarter or reservation.

Fire. The same fire she can see in him now. Hers to fan or to damp down as she chooses.

Saying nothing, Grace starts towards him, slow nonchalant pace after slow nonchalant pace, hyperaware of the way Boyd tracks every movement, watches every inch of her body. Games within games, the rules unspoken, yet perfectly understood by both of them. Rules and roles, complex and exciting, and all of it theirs, and theirs alone. Who else would understand any of it?

She’s close enough now to hear the way he releases a pent-up breath, to see the wide dilation of his pupils, and she can’t help feeling a small, satisfied stab of triumph. It had been just a silly, spur of the moment idea as she’d been getting ready for work that morning, one that she’d spent quite a lot of the day uncomfortably regretting. Stockings and suspenders. What could be more clichéd than that to entice a lover? Doesn’t seem to matter how unoriginal the idea, though – it’s certainly had the desired effect, judging from the stupefied expression on his face when he’d made the discovery, and the hungry look she can still see in his eyes as she draws to a halt in front of him.

He’s so damn tall. She likes it. The way it makes her feel rather more petite and delicate than she’s used to. Even the way she’s forced to actively look up at him appeals to some primitive, inherent feminine instinct at moments like this. Tall and solid, broad through the chest and shoulders. Every bit as physically strong as he looks, a fact she knows very well. She wonders just how close his self-control is to snapping. Whether she wants it to, or whether she doesn’t.

She does. Isn’t that exactly why she locked the archive room’s door, after all?

Boyd is the reckless, impulsive one, the one who simply puts his head down and charges straight at things without worrying about the consequences, or about what people will think. It’s not Grace’s way, never has been, but her lack of interest in emulating him doesn’t ever stop her from getting caught in his slipstream, getting inexorably pulled into the chaotic maelstrom he generates. Doesn’t prevent her from relishing every dangerous, illicit moment of the energy and excitement.

“You,” she says, staring straight up into his eyes, “are a very bad influence, Peter Boyd.”

“So I’ve been told,” he agrees, and though he is deadpan, it’s not only the rapidity of his shallow breathing that betrays him. The look in his eyes, the tautness of his body, the not-quite belligerence of his stance… they all speak to her, telling her just how little it will take for him to abandon any remaining pretence of decorum and simply seize hold of her, exactly the way he did that night when so many things changed between them.

“Well?” she inquires. “Are you going to stand there all night just staring at me, or are you going to kiss me?”

Capricious as he is, there’s no accurate way to guess what Boyd’s response will be. Just another part of the thrill. Still, he doesn’t react the way she half-expects. Doesn’t grab hold of her and kiss her with all the tremendous force he’s so capable of. No, instead of doing something so characteristic and obvious, he visibly relaxes as he starts to laugh, and the sound is so natural and amused that she grins back at him for a moment. Impossible, unpredictable, irresistible man.

“You’re one of a kind, Grace,” he finally says, still chuckling, the warmth of his tone obvious, “you know that, don’t you?”

“Two of a kind?” she suggests.

“You and me?”

Half-hypnotised by the expressive eyes that seem to see straight into her, she manages a slight shrug. “Why not?”

Boyd reaches out and takes hold of her, drawing her against him and slipping his arms round her waist, and Grace finds she’s not at all surprised by how gentle he is in the way he embraces her, in the way he kisses her. Deep and thorough, but so slow and so tender that she all-but melts into him. Such a tough, hard-headed man, one with a fearsome and well-earned reputation for quick-tempered aggression, and yet when the mood takes him…

Drawing back a little, she raises her hand, uses just the tips of her fingers to trace down his cheekbone to his jaw, the feel of the soft bristle of his beard so familiar and yet still so entrancing. His breathing has slowed a little, and he doesn’t say a word, just watches her with the same focused intensity, ready to act on whatever cue she cares to give him. It’s occurred to her before that she might already be addicted beyond recovery to the brief but exciting sense of power her limited control over him lends her at such times. There’s so much in their relationship – in and out of working ours – that’s egalitarian that the few obvious points of imbalance are easily highlighted, and his potential for violence coupled with his brute strength is one of them. To Grace it sometimes feels as if she’s got the most tenuous of grips on a very dangerous and unpredictable beast indeed. A beast that only she has the power to unleash at will.

It’s a ridiculous notion, of course.

Mostly.

He starts to fidget, incapable of maintaining such perfect stillness for very long, and though she doesn’t break eye contact with him, she lets her lingering hand drop away. His response is a husky, “Grace…”

The indecision is back, the desire to push him to the point where his patience snaps and he takes control warring with tempting thoughts of soft sheets and unhurried caresses. The thrill of the impulsive, the forbidden, or the drawn-out, shuddering satisfaction of his body and hers tangled together in warm comfort…

A difficult, delicious choice.

“You have thirty seconds,” Boyd says, his gruff voice breaking into her private fantasy realm, “and then…”

The shockwave the ultimatum sends through her entire body is so powerful that Grace shivers with the thrill of it. Indecision disappears in a heartbeat. It’s still her game to win, though, and she instantly challenges, “’And then…’?”

His kisses her again, and this time he is not gentle. It superheats her blood in a second – less. Everything she gets, she gives straight back – with interest. Bites his bottom lip, laves her tongue across his. Twists her fingers as far as she can into the thick strands of his silver hair; presses the entire length of her body hard against him. Erotic, certainly, but combative, too. Urgent. Obsessive. Not neat and choreographed, but rough, desperate; untidy. Raw. Wicked, wanton, and wonderful.

She feels Boyd twist, urging her backwards without breaking the kiss for even a moment. She lets him guide her, not interested in anything but tasting him, exploring him, matching him. Even the roar in her blood is now a distant, abstract thing, nothing compared to the exquisite sensory feedback hammering through her from every point where they touch. She doesn’t even notice when he backs her against the hard edge of the ugly, utilitarian table next to the first of the tall racks of shelves. The one where so many documents have been spread out and poured over in the past.

The rest of the world has disappeared, and her common-sense along with it. She’s become a creature of need and instinct, driven by attraction and desire, and her ill-advised, barely-concealed infatuation with the man whose agile, skilful hands seem to somehow be everywhere at once. Boyd pulls out of the kiss only to drop his head, his teeth immediately grazing her neck with a perfectly-judged amount of pressure. She gasps and arches against him, pushing her breasts harder into his palms, moaning when he squeezes them in return, his breath hot and moist against her skin as he bites her again. She doesn’t care if he leaves a mark, doesn’t even care if he hurts her, not in the moment. He’s muttering now, a growling, carnal litany that gets inside her skull and arouses her even more.

Through the layers of clothing Grace can feel the unmistakable proof of just how much he wants her, and the temptation to reach down and grasp him through the fabric of his trousers is just too great to resist. Every contour familiar and exciting. He grinds against her, soliciting more, still nipping and nuzzling, still squeezing and stroking. Still worshipping, every bit as caught up in the lust and the madness as she is. It’s a shock when he suddenly brings his strength to bear and lifts her bodily up onto the table before impatiently shrugging out of his jacket and reaching for her again.

She thinks she knows what his next move will be, but she’s wrong. Delightfully wrong. A flex of limbs, a twist here, a knee braced there, and he’s where he evidently wants to be – between her thighs with her legs somehow draped over his shoulders. Grace isn’t capable of much coherent thought, but several of the few stray thoughts that do flash through her mind involve questions about the where and how – and _who_ – of just how he got so damned good at getting exactly what he wants. Then he’s mounting a determined assault on the tempting, costly lingerie she’d almost forgotten she owned and rational thought disappears completely. There’s only sensation. Deft, nimble fingers, hot breath on her inner thigh, and ohbloodyfuck…

It might just be a fault of memory, but she thinks he can shatter her faster and harder than any other lover she can recall. It’s not simply expertise, either, she’s reflected before in much calmer moments, it’s enthusiasm, too. The way he revels in bestowing every single touch, every last caress. The greedy way he explores her with lips and tongue, ready to devour one moment, painstakingly delicate the next. She moans, she curses, she grabs handfuls of his hair and pleads and mumbles and groans; she tries to wriggle and squirm, but Boyd is far too strong, his grip on her much too secure. She can’t do anything but arch her back and beg him for the release her entire body quivers for – a fruitless endeavour. He is just as stubborn in this as he is in everything else.

There will be vengeance. Oh, yes. _Most_ certainly.

Voice hoarse, Grace tells him what she’ll do to him, threatens him with all kinds of erotic torments in revenge, but it only spurs him to drag out every agonising moment of pleasure even further. She’s so close to coming it hurts, the increasing desperation shaking through her limbs, muscles contracting and going into spasm as he takes her right to the edge then stops, again and again. Wonderfully, ecstatically cruel.

She can’t take it anymore. Cannot take it. Cannot…

And then, with barely a hint of warning, she’s there, the sudden release rushing through every inch of her body, screaming through her nerve-endings like white heat, its power making her shake uncontrollably as she cries out without any thought or self-consciousness. It’s a wild rush of adrenaline, a pulsing wave of pleasure that goes on and on until she’s left limp and panting, drifting in a warm, comfortable haze that only starts to abate when she feels Boyd shifting his weight, moving to ease her up from her semi-recumbent position – but whether for her comfort or his, she’s not sure.

“That,” she manages when she can breathe properly again, “was…”

“Incredible?” he suggests, and she doesn’t miss the mischievous twitch of one dark eyebrow. Smug he may very well be on occasions – and often with some justification – but he’s quite capable of quiet self-mockery. One of his less obvious redeeming features, Grace has always felt. He has a robust ego, though, and when she’s feeling so tranquil and sated she’s not above pandering to it. Sometimes.

“Mm,” she agrees, struggling against the half-drugged sleepiness that’s beginning to creep over her. The distant lure of soft, warm covers and a comfortable mattress is becoming stronger by the moment, but not only are they miles from his house or hers, there’s… well, the small matter of… reciprocation.

“Grace…? What the… Are you falling asleep on me?”

Startled and guilty, she snaps out of the rapidly-descending fog and lifts her head from its resting place on his shoulder. “No. No, not at all.”

To his credit, Boyd sounds more amused than irritated as he accuses, “Liar.”

He’ll drive her home without more than words of grumbled complaint if she asks him to, Grace knows. Oh, yes, he will complain, and at considerable length, too, but fiery as he is, he’s a long, long way past the hair-trigger days of youth and there won’t be much ire in it, not really. Perhaps if she gives him a winsome smile and the doe-eyed look that seems to work so well…

 _For heaven’s sake, Grace!_ she chides herself, stung by sudden awareness. _You’re not bloody geriatric yet! What on earth are you thinking?_

It’s a good question. A very good question.

Fired with a renewed sense of energy and purpose, she stretches, using the movement as an excuse to undulate against him, pleased by the effect it seems to have. At least one of her stockings is laddered beyond any hope of salvaging, she notices, and where the meagre scraps of lacy, ivory-coloured material previously adorning her nether regions have vanished to she has no idea. He’s a bit of a magician where such things are concerned, she’s discovered. Capable of conjuring away stray items of female clothing long before any pertinent questions can be asked. It’s another skill she’s not too sure she wants to examine the origins of too closely. Don’t ask, just reap the benefits.

He’s still rock hard. She can feel it. An idea is forming in her mind. One that involves the thus-far neglected chair next to them. Slithering off the table, she places her palms on Boyd’s chest and pushes. It’s largely ineffective, given that he outweighs her by a considerable amount, but that’s not the point. He seems to get the message, glancing at the chair before giving her a thoughtful look then settling without a word. She straddles him immediately. It’s blatant – and then some – but Grace doesn’t care, and she’s pretty damn certain Boyd doesn’t either. Baby boomers, the pair of them, both teenagers back in the legendary ‘sixties when traditional inhibitions were scorned, and eager experimentation was seized at every opportunity. A separate but shared legacy of excitement and unparalleled freedom to be thoroughly enjoyed together now, in their later years. Fun and straightforward, a long, long way from all those half-forgotten intermediate years of nagging Catholic guilt when she wasn’t sure about anything, and couldn’t help asking herself the kind of soul-searching questions that seem ridiculous now.

Hands resting on her hips, Boyd is gazing at her, rapt and quizzical, and a little mistrustful, as if he’s not sure what her next move will be – or even what he wants it to be. He takes his pleasures where he finds them, she’s always known that, and whether he’s aware of it or not, Grace is certain the need is fuelled by the streak of insecurity and self-loathing that runs through his character. The part of him that doesn’t like himself much, and doesn’t believe anyone else could, either. The part of him that takes what it can when it can because it doesn’t expect anything good to last. If she had to make an educated guess, as a woman as much as a psychologist, she’d suggest a lot of his impatience stems from the same source. The need for _now_ , because _later_ might never arrive.

His belt buckle surrenders to her with a quiet metallic jingle, but nothing in his expression changes. He remains silent and impassive as first the button and then the zip of his trousers also capitulate. More games. The dark grey briefs below are sharply tented, belying his apparent calm, and she watches him intently as she reaches to caress the exciting lines through the soft fabric. His eyes close and his head inclines back for a moment, and it’s easy to imagine the pleasure, the sudden bliss he feels. For a moment Grace copies him, closing her own eyes to eliminate one sense and better savour only what she can feel. That familiar organic rigidity, solid and alive; the concentrated heat, the answering twitches of keen desire. Deprived of sight, her other senses sharpen, too, making her aware of the tiniest of things. The sound of his breathing, light and quick; the heady, musky scent of increasing arousal.

Opening her eyes again, she goes to work with enthusiastic finesse, springing his cock free of its soft, stretchy prison and fisting it with a calculated amount of pressure. Not too rough, and not too quick, not yet. Boyd groans, hips responding automatically, pushing himself up into her grip, and she allows herself a brief, wicked grin. He’s good, but so is she. Oh, yes. Grace knows a thing or two about men, and about this man in particular. What he likes, what shakes him, what makes him curse, what makes him come as close as she’s ever known to pleading.

“Stockings,” she muses, keeping to the same smooth rhythm but determined to tease him nonetheless. “Who would have thought they’d do it for you quite so well?”

His head tips forward and his eyes open. “I’m a man… what do you bloody expect?”

“I’m just a little disappointed to discover that your tastes are so predictable, Boyd.”

He sounds disgruntled as he retorts, “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, but _predictable_ …”

Chuckling, she leans forward to kiss him. His response is fiercer than she expects, the long fingers of one hand tangling into her hair, keeping her from pulling back as the kiss deepens, becomes rougher and far more urgent. It heats her body again, pulls her back into a dangerous swell of want and need that only increases as his other hand moves between her thighs. It’s difficult to keep focus, so Grace stops trying. Touching, being touched, it doesn’t matter – it’s no longer him and her, it’s _them_. Please and be pleased.

She breaks away enough to nip his ear, to tease the sensitive lobe with her tongue, to whisper a breathy, “Do you want me, Peter?”

“Jesus, Grace…” A groan, deep and carnal, precedes, “You have no fucking _idea_ how much…”

She thinks she does. After all, isn’t her hand firmly grasped around the most elemental proof possible? So hot, so hard, so needy…

She can be every bit as precipitate as he can. On occasion. She moves swiftly, hitching her skirt a fraction higher as she stands and turns, but Boyd doesn’t wait for her to settle. A strong hand on her hip pulls her back down onto his lap as he guides himself with the other. A slanting, shivering shock of pleasure slams through her, one that becomes something much more intense as her body accepts him and they start to move together, the initial friction lessening, the speed increasing. She bites her lower lip, eyes closed tight again, and concentrates on devising all the impromptu harmonies of force and rhythm that help push her closer and closer to that wonderful, elusive not-place where nothing matters but the very apex of pleasure and desire.

Boyd is gripping her hips so hard that she absolutely expects to find fingermark bruises in the morning. She doesn’t care. Back pressed against his chest, all she’s interested in is the race down the path to release. Who grunts, who groans, who gasps – none of it’s important. One of her hands is behind her, grappled onto a fistful of expensive bespoke shirt, the other is sliding down between her legs, but he intervenes, snaking an arm under hers and it’s his fingers that start to work her, not rough, but determined. It’s too much, and yet it’s not nearly enough. Heavy contact, inside and out; so, so good, and so promising, but she’s not there yet.

“Faster,” she urges, her breathless voice thick with need. The answer is a grunt and a perceptible increase in tempo. She’s glad he’s as strong as he is, glad he’s so firmly braced that he’s able to drive up into her with the amount of power she needs. There’s no subtlety, not anymore, there’s just the obsessive need to snatch her release before he roars beneath her and it’s – temporarily – stolen from her.

“Fuck…” A mumbled entreaty? A question? An announcement? She doesn’t know or care. “ _Grace_ …”

It’s the sudden change of his movements that pushes her over the brink. The last few hard, jerky thrusts as he starts to come. She doesn’t hear his choked-off bellow, isn’t aware of the way his fingers dig so hard into the flesh of her hip that it should hurt. Selfish, she is, in those few seconds as the spasms shake her body and her mind spins away into brief oblivion. Still, she recovers faster than he does, bits and pieces of reality beginning to make sense again. His breath, hot and quick on the nape of her neck. The warm hand now flat on her belly, the other still on her hip. The thick, animal scent clinging to them both. The blinking of the little red light on the –

“Camera!” It’s a strangled sort of yelp. Not the sort of noise she’d ever make through choice. “Boyd. _Boyd_.”

His response is even less articulate, even less elegant. A curse and a grunt fused together. Quickly followed by, “What the…?”

“CCTV, idiot!” she rages at him, racing to disentangle herself. No gentle, intimate aftermath, no blissful recovery, just a sick feeling of rising panic.

“Eh?” Clearly Boyd is struggling with the concept. “What? Grace, what the fuck are you…?”

Her explanatory gesture is swift and expansive, encompassing not just the merciless spying cyclops, but the entire corner of the big room. “You forgot about the bloody CCTV!”

“ _I_ did?” Boyd challenges. “Since when – ”

All sorts of things are racing through her mind, a great number of them centring on curt letters of resignation and the impossibility of stopping any salacious rumours leaving the building. She can picture the sniggering, the furtive glances, the –

“Why are you so bloody calm?” she demands, suddenly realising that Boyd does not look like a man who’s trying to come to terms with the fact that he’s just compromised his entire career.

“Two reasons,” he says, sounding more composed. When he pauses to adjust himself, to tidy his disarrayed clothing, she’s more tempted than she’s ever been before to slap him. “Firstly – ”

The strain is too much. “Yes? I _swear_ , Boyd – ”

He gets to his feet, holds up a hand. “Are you going to stop having a fit of the vapours and actually listen to me?”

He’s the most irritating, infuriating, plain-bloody-exasperating man she’s ever met. A thorn in her side, a –

“Grace?”

“Go on,” she says, tight-lipped.

“Firstly, all of the few cameras we have are on internal feeds. Only we have access to them. And secondly – ”

“Yes?”

He’s grinning. As if it’s just about the funniest thing that’s ever happened. “I have the only bloody key to the cupboard where all the recording stuff is set up.”

The tiny red light is still blinking steadily at them.

She hates him. Sometimes, she really, _really_ hates him.

“I’m going home now,” she says after a long moment, doing her best to ignore the way the chill in her tone only seems to amuse him even more. “And if there are more than two functioning brain cells in that thick male skull of yours, you will deal with the… issue… long before you have even the faintest notion of following me. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grace.” The meek tone is specious at best.

“Good.”

It’s ridiculous. The whole thing is ridiculous. At their age…

“It’s all your fault, you know,” Boyd says, as she does what she can to make herself look halfway publicly presentable.

She snaps her head round, and her glare is not contrived. “Oh? And how do you reach _that_ ridiculous conclusion, pray?”

The spark of amusement in his eyes is far too bright. Far too mischievous. She doesn’t trust him an inch. Never has, never will. Never _should_.

“Stockings,” he says, and the growl that underscores the word causes a renewed shiver down her spine. A very real and very erotic shiver.

Damn.

_\- the end –_

* * *

 

**A/N:** _Anyone bewildered by the use of the term “suspenders” in this fic should probably substitute the words “garter belt” in their minds. It’s a British/American language anomaly. ;)_


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